


With Your Hands Around My Throat

by rl4sb4eva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Discussion of Bondage, M/M, Marking, Rentboy! AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:06:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rl4sb4eva/pseuds/rl4sb4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus and Sirius meet in a dingy pub.<br/>Rentboy!AU, they're strangers.<br/>Remus is still a werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Your Hands Around My Throat

Remus is in a bar, nice, dark, smoky, rolling a slim roll-up, stretching out the tobacco. He knows it’s a filthy habit but it helps in the days after a change, and this one had hurt, ripped him apart and spat him out the other side, he woke up to bruises on his throat from the chain he uses to lock himself down on full moons. Wrapped around the tree deep in the woods that takes nearly two hours to hike too, and every month gets more scratched and broken as his wolf fights to get away, and the chain scratches and pulls digging in deeper and deeper.

Remus huffs a laugh at how he’s describing himself and the tree as he reaches to light a match.

He’s heard the footsteps but not really registered them when the bright orange flame appears infront of his eyes and makes him blink suddenly as it lights the end of the cigarette and he breathes in almost on instinct.

Blinking the orange blur away from his vision as he feels a warm body slide into the darkened booth next to him, and smells leather and sweat, mixed with tobacco and a hint of aftershave under the whole thing.

Behind the bar the keep calls ‘last orders’.

Sirius can pull off the dom look even though he’s clearly a sub and Remus can smell it on him, the sweat and the come, and the first time he did it was the night after a full moon and he’d chained himself up in the forest, collar tight around his neck and the John thought Remus was ‘rough trade’ and slapped him, and Remus stills, but the guy whispers “how much to choke you?” and he figures he can shove the guy away if he needs to, he may be weakened but he’s not completely powerless, so he says “£100” as the guys hands wrap over the bruises and squeeze and he feels his head go fuzzy, by the time he realises something is wrong its too late and his hands have gone limp and he can feel the burst of heat in his arse as the guy comes and he blacks out.

Wakes up 20 minutes later to a hastily scrawled note wrapped around £300 saying “next week, same time, same place, rooms paid for the night” so he stays on the probably stained bedsheets, and the smell of come won’t wash off in the tiny bath.

He goes back the next week.

And Sirius is old money, disgraced and down on his luck, starts as a fuck in an alley behind a club, and he’s heard the rumours of illnesses travelling the scene so he makes the guy wear a condom, grabbing him by the throat when he tries to fuck into him without one and punching him out against the brick.

He feels the rush of power as adrenaline but nothing more, and the guys cock twitches limply as he slides down the rough wall, and when he comes up short for his rent he goes back, sees the pros scouring the bar and decides to move towards the back booths, the dark and seedy underbelly, that smells faintly of sex and bleach no matter what the time is, and there’s a guy, business suit, cufflinks, tie still done up and held in place with a tie bar and he feels the business card slipped into his pocket as the guy slips past “the alley, £300” and follows.

He freezes for a moment when the guy drops to his knees and starts pulling his bike leathers open, he figured wipe clean was the best option, and slides his cock out. The small, slurred “use me” enough to have Sirius wrapping his hands in thin dark brown hair and forcing his way in. He knows the guys head hits the wall, and he feels the moan everytime it does, on his knees in an alley reeking of piss and he comes without touching himself, suit trousers ruined and sticking as he stands, and Sirius catches the blood on the crotch as he winces. Pulling open a wallet that cost more than Sirius’ rent and shoving £300 into his hands before hurrying off.

And then Remus is in a bar, nursing a pint that his voice had cracked whilst ordering, ignoring the eyes that flick to his throat with practiced ease, and shifting in his seat, watching the tobacco catch hanging out of the paper when the lighter appears, and the warm body slides in next to him. Leather and sweat and come, and Remus shifts over, not really up for another go this evening and wanting to go home and drink enough vodka to kill a rhino.

And he looks up and catches Sirius’ eyes, bright and glittering in the dim lights as he says “bum a fag?” before grabbing the packet and starting to roll one without Remus answering.

They sit there as the rollies burn down to stubs and neither says anything as the bar calls last orders again and then closing time and Sirius follows Remus out into the street, catching his arm as he reaches it out to hail a cab “So, uh… Oh Shit.” And Remus turns as this guy who stole his fags and didn’t speak to him stares at his throat and says “Sorry, thought you might be a John, that booth is kinda the… But you’re… Rough trade?”

Remus hates that phrase, and yanks his arm out of the loose grip, hailing the cab and starting to open the door before it’s even fully stopped, and he climbs in.

"Look, mate, it’s ok. Just, cheers for the fag." And Sirius smiles, weak, and Remus goes for something he wouldn’t normally, holds the door open a fraction longer and "get in the fucking cab".

The ride back is quiet, and Remus spends it wondering why the fuck he said it, maybe it’s the sick rush he feels at finding someone else who does this, maybe he deludes him by telling his head they can discuss tales of bad johns and tips.

But when he looks at the fashionably greasy wavy hair that is ruffled and mussed to frame his face he knows he’s lying to himself.

The taxi driver charges them double and drives off shouting “poofs” gleefully when he drops them at the end of Remus’ road, two streetlights and 8 poles with broken lamps on lighting the way to a door that needs to be lifted before it opens and a quiet shuffle up the stairs so as to not wake the neighbours in the converted terrace house, and a swearing match with his front door to the attic room.

He throws his keys to the table inside the door, flicks on the radio and grabs the vodka from the counter.

"I’m Sirius by the way." He says as he slides his jacket off and Remus’ mouth waters.

"Remus." He spends half a second wondering if he should give a fake name, but his pretentious fucking thing of a name tends to be written off as fake anyway, and he gets the impression Sirius has the same problem.

Remus waves the bottle at him after taking a long swig and slides his shirt over his head when Sirius takes it, spluttering slightly at the cheap bitter liquor as it burns its way down.

And Remus wants to touch, reach out and touch the peeking black ink under the ripped t-shirt Sirius is wearing and see how far it goes up.

"So, ‘rough trade’ then?" Remus sighs, snatching the vodka back and stepping the three paces across the cracked lino floor and falling to the mattress in the corner.

"Yeah, sometimes. You?"

"Oh, similar. The leather and stuff."

Remus snorts, “no fucking way. You’ve got bottom written all over you.”

He leans back on his elbows, and kicks a foot out, knowing he’s playing a part and knocking a book out of the way.

"Really? Says the guy with a throat that looks like a Pollock painting."

Remus’ hand twitches around the bottle, itching to cover the bruises, and instead plays even harder, lets his head fall back as he holds Sirius gaze.

"So thats why you came back. Abstract expressionism fan?" He lets out a hollow laugh, and swills down more vodka.

"You know…" Remus’ head snaps up, Sirius has crossed and is stood between his spread legs and Remus knows the alcohol is working, dulling his sense down so he’s not hyperaware of every inch of his room.

"…if you came to me as a John, I’d fuck you doggy style with your own belt around your throat, and make you put it back on after." His voice is quieter, lower and deeper and it makes Remus’ stomach tremble, anger welling in his chest as one hand balls into a fist.

"Really?"

Sirius falls forward, knees parting and pinning Remus down to the bed. “Maybe I’d use my belt to hold your wrists together, give me something else to pull for leverage.”

Remus’ hand is lax around the vodka bottle, half empty and sliding in his sweat slicked grip, and he feels Sirius grab it and down another mouthful before clattering it to the floor and grabbing Remus’ head hard between his hands and leaning in.

Remus whispers when he’s an inch out, Sirius stopping and the scent of beer and cigarettes assaulting Remus’ nose. “If you came to me as a John, I’d let you.”

Sirius pushes forward the last inch, foregoing a press of lips to just bite at Remus’ bottom lip and dig in hard, noses pressing awkwardly. And Remus grabs onto his arms, digs his nails in and pulls him closer. Pulling his legs in so Sirius can sit back against his thighs and slide his hands in Remus’ hair and pull, and Remus loses it, flips them, hears the rough thump of Sirius leg hitting the wall and feels the shock up his body as his knee hits the floor hard. “You little shit.”

He shoves his pelvis forward, pressing denim against leather and feeling hard flesh against hard flesh. The vodka still dulling his sense, and he bites at Sirius’ lips in retaliation, feeling him whimper and writhe, trying to flip them back over.

He lets his hand move from an arm, avoids the hand that flails up and grabs at his shoulder as he gets long fingers over Sirius’ neck the curve of thumb and forefinger pressed up against the join of his throat and pressing hard enough to cut off the air and Sirius goes limp, body lax, half on the mattress, half on the floor beneath Remus and he doesn’t even try to pull in a halted breath, eyes wide.

"Fucking knew it."

Remus grins, leaning down to bite below his thumb and feeling Sirius’ cock twitch against him. He feels the aborted swallow as Sirius’ brain starts to kick in, starts to demand oxygen and loosens up, watching as Sirius sucks in a lungful of air and manages not to cough.

Remus rolls to the side standing and scooping the vodka from the floor, taking a long drink before waving a hand at Sirius almost dismissively, “strip.”

"What?" There’s mild outrage but Remus catches the edge of want, voice slightly croaky, and he walks over to the kitchen switching through the radio stations until he finds White Riot with only mild crackling and leaves it, turning back.

"I assume the Pollock enthusiast knows what the word strip means?"

He knows he’s being a bastard, but he wants so badly, and unless Sirius stands up and walks out right now, he thinks he’s going to get.

And if he’s honest, Sirius is smiling like the cat that got the fucking cream and he wants to smack it off his face and make him beg like a dog for a treat.

He watches Sirius’ hands go to the zip of his trousers and undo them slowly. Too slowly.

"You aren’t being marked on stripping technique you know." Remus says calmly, watching as Sirius strips out of the leathers, boxers going with them and leans back on his elbows, presenting himself, and there’s white skin, unmarked.

"Question."

"Put your hand up." Remus smirks, and watches as Sirius stretches his arm up, hand open.

"Yes?"

"On a scale of one to de Sade, how far do you wanna go?" And there’s a hint of trepidation there, a slight stammer, and Remus smirks wider.

"Flogging pregnant women isn’t really my thing." He jokes as he moves back over, straddling Sirius in a reverse of their earlier position and sitting back when he brings his knees up, knowing the denim of his jeans is pressed against Sirius’ half-hard damp cock and shifting minutely just to remind himself.

“But I do enjoy a nice hard fuck. Yourself?” It’s almost conversational, would be genteel even, if Sirius weren’t starkers with a bruise blooming beneath his jaw in the shape of Remus’ thumb, and Remus wasn’t itching to scratch over every inch of his skin and make him bleed.

“I won’t expect you to wear fur.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in several skype messages to a friend over a few hours, and hasn't really been cleaned up much beyond a cursory glance and some finagling. Any glaring errors let me know.


End file.
